


The Stakeout

by Lucky7



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Loneliness, Seeking connections
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky7/pseuds/Lucky7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his former job he’d often been alone on these type assignments. But this time it would be nice to have some company… (POV Reese)<br/>Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters. Such a pity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stakeout

It’s a full moon and wispy clouds fingering that luminous pearl provide a supernatural setting for his assignment. Neighborhood trees which during the day bud with the promise of spring, are now skeletal hands reaching for the sky, arcing over houses that have become dark specters squatting on colorless lawns. 

_In other words, a perfect night for a stakeout…_

But even the sinister landscape isn’t intriguing enough to hold his attention long or prevent the evening from dragging on as he shifts around in his seat for the umpteenth time. He curses the new age gas efficient car…which was obviously designed for a munchkin. He’s already moved the seat as far back as it will go but could still steer this can on wheels with his knees if need be. Normal sized people don’t get into a car like this, he thinks, they have to put it on! 

In retrospect, he should have taken Finch’s town car, even if it would have stood out in this neighborhood like a race horse in a herd of donkeys. In addition to having enough room to stretch out his legs, its seats recline to any angle, and can be heated or cooled. A far more macho mode of transportation too, and it certainly wouldn’t smell like yesterday’s cigarette…or is that giggle weed?

He raises the spy glass and once more scans the house across the street. It’s a ramshackle place, probably publicized by local realtors as a “quaint ranch style”. But there is nothing quaint about this pile of lumber with its peeling paint, grimy windows and screens drooping like flags on a windless day. The house is just a sad collection of rooms held prisoner under a common roof and fenced into a too small lot. Even the weathered garden gnome is depressed and leans miserably against the lone tree in the weed infested yard. 

Obviously the resident here is much more suited to being an apartment dweller than homeowner. 

All quiet. Still. As expected, since their Number is not anticipated to leave until tomorrow morning. But Finch worried that the idiot owner might try to sneak out early and so here he is, on a stakeout. And alone, since he'd finally convinced the computer geek…who had been data crunching into the wee hours the night before…to take a break and make an early night of it. 

Nothing is going to happen tonight; he can feel it in his gut, which gut is now cranky and grumbling at being empty. His own fault of course; he never eats on a stakeout as there’s always a chance things will go south just as he bites into a hoagie. But these gut rumblings are getting annoying. 

The lone stakeout was never his favorite assignment, though he’d certainly had plenty of experience killing time on them in his prior job. In fact, he estimated once that some 70% of his time in the CIA was spent waiting: on people, on intel, on events, on extractions, on and on. And now his job requires the same - only here the waiting is labeled “surveillance”. 

_A rose by any other name…_

He reminds himself that despite the cramped leg room, stakeouts during his present job are still more comfortable than most in his past. After all, he’s sitting on a padded car seat, not belly down in some bug infested field and he has a clear view of his target without having to part thorny branches or sneeze inducing tall grass. Also a plus: it’s not freezing nor blazing hot…and if it were he can turn on the heat or A/C. 

In addition, working for Harold Finch has exposed him to a different quarry than the terrorists he used to hunt, adding an interesting aspect to a stakeout in that he often sees far more of his target than is probably necessary! Like Megan Tillman dressing and primping in front of a bathroom mirror; Bradley Petrosian kissing his boy friend; Adam Saunders making love to his lady boss. Enforced voyeurism. He’s never told Harold those details, though it might be fun to watch his fastidious boss squirm. Again. 

_“Ever been on a stakeout, Finch?”_  
_“No. Should I bring anything?”_  
_“Warm clothes, something to read, and an empty water bottle.”_  
_“Empty?”_  
_“There are no bathrooms on a stakeout, Finch…”_

He smiles now, remembering the stunned silence in his ear. A flustered Finch is such entertainment. But he’d enjoyed having his boss there and in the end learned something new on that particular stakeout - how a Pringles container can capture wifi radio waves. 

He sighs. It would be nice to have some company this time and he regrets now telling Finch to go to bed and get some rest…and insisting there was no reason to use the ear wig. In his former job he’d often been alone on these type assignments, many times not having contact with his handler for days. But working for Finch? He’s become accustomed to having that calm, precise voice in his ear, and finds it eases him, gives him a sense of…of being connected to someone, even if it remotely. 

_Huh… And when did that become important?_

He picks up his phone, stares at the screen for a few seconds, knowing that if he were to call his boss he would likely wake the older man. And this after he’d argued against his employer coming along. Nothing has changed: there’s still no reason to have Finch here other than he’s feeling…alone. So, no, he won’t be placing that call and puts the phone back down on the console.

Minutes pass and finally he rubs his hands over his face, pauses and picks up the phone again. He hits the speed dial while lifting it to his ear.

“No! Not now…I’m busy!”

“And a good evening to you too detective.” he replies smoothly, recognizing that her whispering means Carter is either working an important case or…something else. “How are things going?”

“I serious, John! Unless you need me to stop the bleeding, go away. Or call Fusco.” 

Ah, something else then. And it must be personal; no way would Carter respond like this if she were on duty this late. That means Taylor or Beecher. But it’s almost eleven, a school night, and with those noises in the background…

“Are you enjoying your dinner? Hope he took you to someplace nice.”

Carter is silent and then, “What do you want John? He’s just gone to the restroom and I really don’t want a conversation about who’s calling me.”

“Are you ashamed of our relationship Carter? After all we’ve meant to each other…”

“John…!”

“Ok, ok. I just called to check in and see how you’re doing, but if your dinner is more important than talking to me…” He allows just enough emotion to leak into his voice to sound hurt.

But Carter is evidently not buying it. “Call Fusco if you need to talk to someone! Now, good-by. He’s on his way back to the table.” And an audible click ends the conversation.

Well. That didn’t go like he intended. He thinks about calling back just to irritate her, but with Beecher in attendance that would put her in a difficult position and he won’t do that to her. She’s a good friend; he wants to keep it that way. He’ll check with her tomorrow and find out how it all went down, and if there’s even a hint that the other detective isn’t treating her with respect…well, he’ll have a discussion with that narcotics cop. Mano a mano…

Picking up the spy glass again he checks the house. Nothing. Drums his fingers on the wheel, stretches his cramping foot, pops his neck. Everything is so quiet, the world must be asleep.

Including Fusco...  
He smirks, as he presses speed dial again.

“What do you want?” The irritation in the detective’s voice is palpable.

“You’re not in bed yet? And it’s past your bedtime.” Reese purrs. “It’s…” he looks at his watch, “…after eleven already.”

“If you must know, I’m entertaining. And no, I don’t want your help with that!” Fusco responds. “So if you need something, call Carter. Or the Professor.”

“Fusco, I called you. Now what’s so important that you are blowing me off?” Reese lowers his voice, fully aware that the detective’s anxiety level will increase at the raspy sound. “Forgotten your role in this relationship already? Let me refresh your memory: I call…you come running.”

“What am I, your dog? You already got one.” The words echo slightly and then there is a pause. The tinny audio tells him Fusco is cupping his hand around his mouth. “Look, you got a serious problem? You hurt or something?” 

“No detective, I’m fine. I just called…to talk.” Reese replies evenly.

“Well, I don’t have time. So if that’s all, I’m gonna to hang up and get back to Rhonda. I made her dinner.” The last words come out defiantly, daring Reese to comment. Another long pause which the ex-op allows to stretch out, and in a softer tone Fusco finally says, “But if you’re really in trouble, I’ll tell her I’ve been called in. Just tell me where you are.”

Reese shakes his head. Fusco cooking dinner. Will wonders never cease…  
“It’s all right detective. I’m not in trouble, so…”

Fusco interrupts him. “Ok. Good. But look, I got this thing going on now, you know? Something special…”

“I understand. Go ahead and have a nice evening. And Fusco, treat the lady right…and use protection.” He hangs up before the detective can respond.

Carter on a date and Fusco entertaining a lady…it all sounds so normal, so real. Ordinary people in an ordinary world that has no place for someone like himself. He slumps lower in the seat as Kara’s voice echoes in his mind.  
_“You look like the rest of these people, but you’re not like them anymore. If they knew what you’d done? You’re barely the same species…”_

The night weighs heavy on him now, the shadows creeping across the street with the rising of the full moon. He wonders who else he could call. Maybe…? And he picks up the phone once more, his fingers unerringly finding the right code.

“ So, John…haven’t heard from you in a while! Everything all right?” Her husky voice holds a promise of long summer evenings, fine wine, and…

“Zoe…” he smiles over the name. “Couldn’t be finer. Not interrupting am I?”

“Actually, yes. I’m going to be collecting a nice piece of information in a few minutes. So nice I plan on rewarding myself tomorrow by getting that Ferragamo coat I’ve had my eye on!” she replies, pauses, and then continues, “How about I call you in the morning?” 

“No problem. Enjoy your evening…” He clicks the phone off, picturing her turning on the charm for some sleazy politician that he would probably simply kneecap for intel. Honey might catch more flies than vinegar, but a shattered patella leaves a far more lasting impression. 

He scans the house again, willing something to move behind those flimsy curtains. But if his gut is right, nothing is going to happen tonight and he’s stuck out here for many more hours, scrunched into this metal box like a sardine in a can. 

But worse than the confined space for his body, are the confined thoughts in his head. He’s had enough experience with waking nightmares to recognize that part of his brain is now busy lining up a one-man showing of “all things John Reese”. That black sink hole full of unpleasant memories of his prior life is widening and he’s standing on the brink.

He has to consciously keep himself from reaching for his phone again.

Then suddenly there is movement in his peripheral vision, and he ducks lower in the seat, or at least as low as the sardine can will allow. With the moon now lighting up the neighborhood like an evening game ball park, he doesn’t need the spy glass to see a taxi glide to a halt in front of the house next door. He watches intently as a slight man in a large overcoat exits the passenger side, walks around to pay the cabbie, and then opens the driver side back door. 

And out jumps…Bear?

Reese bolts upright as the taxi drives off and Finch limps across the street holding the dogs leash in one hand and a paper bag in another. Hesitating only briefly, the ex-op reaches across the seat and pushes open the passenger door, folding the seat forward to allow Bear to jump onto the miniscule back bench. 

Flipping the seat back to its normal position, Finch slides in next to his employee, closing the door while Reese reassures the ecstatic dog that all is still well between them. With the greeting protocols concluded, Bear settles back, panting happily now that his entire pack is together in this little metal crate, allowing Reese to finally address his employer. 

“What are you doing here, Finch?” he asks quietly, watching his boss pull two cups and a thick sandwich from the bag. Carefully inserting the cups in the console holders, the older man empties the bag, meticulously folds it and places it under his seat. 

“Well, Mr. Reese, from the sound of those digestive rumbles, I surmised you skipped eating again”, he replies calmly while handing Reese the sandwich. “I also brought you some coffee to help you stay alert.“

“From the sound of…? I thought you were going to catch up on some sleep, Finch, not monitor this stakeout! Have you been listening in?”

“Always. And in addition to needing some sustenance, it also sounded like you were desirous of some company.”

Reese stares at the smaller man, his hands on auto pilot as he unwraps the sandwich. Amazing. Just when he thinks he has a handle on his benefactor, Harold does something totally surprising. He takes a bite, causing his stomach to rumble with joy, and watches the older man sip the aromatic tea.

“Don’t drink too much of that, Finch. You may regret it…” he says gently, inanely pleased that he won’t be spending the evening alone after all.

“Oh, don’t worry Mr. Reese," the older man replies, tapping his coat pocket. "I brought my own empty water bottle…”


End file.
